Composure
by Felandris09
Summary: Cullen is being a tease.


"Pardon?"

"You heard me." She has indeed, if the hot flush on her cheeks is anything to go by. Only she couldn't be sure he's actually just uttered those words to her. She swallows.

"Could you… repeat that?"

Cullen moves in even closer, all but pinning her against the war room door. When he leans in, his scent, warmth and voice invade her senses all at once, and her body instantly reacts like it always does, the heat blooming deep inside her.

When he speaks, his voice is barely above a whisper, a tone or two deeper than usual, suggestive and dangerous. A noise from outside, too loud an exhale, and she could easily miss what he says. So she stays almost painfully still, giving him her entire body's attention. And he knows it. She can _feel_ his half-smile- the smug, irresistible version of it- as his baritone sends a shiver through her.

"I said I'll have to have you for dessert tonight. Lift up those naughty little skirts", the lightest brush of his thigh against the flare of her floral dress, "throw your leg over my shoulder" - _was that the tip of his finger on her thigh?_ "tear off your smalls", not even the faintest idea of a touch, but a heavy throb between her legs, "and feast on you." The whisper of his breath against the shell of her ear, the proximity a mere suggestion of his warm, strong tongue. She whimpers.

He pauses, allowing her to catch her breath. It's only when she looks up at him that she realizes her eyes were closed.

His arm is above her head now, braced against the dark wooden door. The smile is still there, calm and composed just as he is. She didn't think it was possible for him to lean in any more closely, but he does.

"And when I've drank you all up, I'll bend you over and take you from behind. Because I know how much you like that." She nearly mewls but manages to stifle her desperate agreement into a nod instead. He leans towards her other ear, and the sensations wash all over her again.

"I'm going to make you forget your name as you scream mine. But where will I do it? My desk, perhaps? On the balcony, bending you over the rail…"

His voice trails off as he is first to sense the approaching steps and moves fast.

Before the door handle even moves, he's standing behind her. As their colleagues walk into the hallway along with their visitor, he stands ready to greet them, all nonchalant decorum.

"Leliana, Josephine. Marquis du Roux", just the indication of a polite bow for their guest. As he straightens back up, his face is just close enough for a quick, suggestive whisper which is completely lost on the still-approaching party.

"Or I could just have you on the war table."

A new, unexpected wave of hot arousal floods through her as she feels her legs about to give way. She is just short of falling, falling into him, which is sort of what she would like. But somehow she catches her balance, garnering the concentration to politely greet everyone before they all enter the war room.

The next two hours or so are spent talking, praising, negotiating- recent achievements, future ventures, the Marquess's _delightful_ gown. Most of her efforts, however, go into ignoring the way her body, _every single nerve in it_, is still singing for Cullen. Worse still, she finds herself having to feign ignorance to how his fingers languidly brush along the map, to those tiny, short glances he shoots her now and then, and to the way he will hold on to the grip of his sword just a little too long, a tad too suggestively.

Her calm facade continues to hold up as she eventually follows their guest through the door back into the hall, almost a little proud of having made it through the meeting without pouncing outright on her military advisor. Then, just as said advisor brushes past her, she feels a gloved finger tracing a line just below her tailbone, a tentative dip between her cheeks that lasts a mere split second but has her body screaming for him all over. She wants to touch, straddle, caress, rub, stroke, kiss, lick, _feel_ him, now, _right_ now, and soothe that almighty ache he's incited in her.

But he's bidding his farewell to the Marquis so he can go back to his troops while she gets to entertain their important guest for the rest of the afternoon.

Just before he leaves, Cullen turns back towards her, the half-smile now all casual, voice politely cheerful as he addresses her.

"See you later." And he walks off.

All she can do is stand there and stare, dumbfounded. Her response is a breathless whimper, almost a little moan.

"Yes. Later."


End file.
